Beauty is in the Eyes of
by Sunburned-Stickperson
Summary: Some of Altair's greatest discoveries came from some of his biggest mistakes.


There was something indescribable about the man's descendant. While Altair was power, Desmond was stealth. While Altair was untamed, Desmond was restrained enough for any situation. While Altair was monotonous, Desmond was unpredictable. While Altair was an assassin, Desmond was anything he wanted to be. That tan skin, something he was used to, is completely new beneath his skin as the man remains hunched over the bureau counter. It ripples and plays with the shadows from the lamp in the setting sun as the feather scratches the skin raw. He watches the muscles ripple and tense as he watches the black ink form patterns beneath him. They move so smoothly he finds his every line pressing for another twitch of the power beneath his hand. Desmond is patient, so much more than Altair, and the man beneath his fingers lets out a soft sigh at the feel of the quill. He draws over the man's back, outlining streets and buildings, replicating all of Jerusalem on that rich skin.

It is entrancing, ensnaring, how he can see all the muscle beneath that skin as the black line turns into the street just outside of the bureau. A soft groan reaches his ears, a deep rumble in that broad chest that makes him want to shiver with delight as the shadows play across the beautiful skin. He exhales softly, getting a slightly larger twitch of the skin. He hadn't realized how close he is to the man's back as he continues to draw in his lines and fill in the symbol of the assassins on the bureau. This man was going to be beautiful once he was done.

The man inhales deeply, still holding still, but he isn't sure how he ended up in this position, kneeling behind him and watching as the city came to life on a living canvas. He is entranced as the ink appears, and the man never flinches. He can't hear the people outside the bureau, the noise on the inside either. It's just him and his living canvas—his living testimony to the brilliant talent he has. He can't see anything, his vision tunneled as he has so long ago trained it to do, and all his attention is on creating the perfect map, because true beauty is fleeting, and he can hear his own breathing mixing with the deep breathing of his map.

The arms are covered with feather-like patterns that he learned from an Indian woman and her trading caravan. His back was becoming the layout of Jerusalem, and he kneels behind the man to work on his lower back.

"Incredible," he murmurs, "beautiful."

Desmond hums softly, and he finds his lines appearing more slowly as he takes his time to savor his final stretch of skin. This man, this assassin from the future, is more than Altair could ever hope to be, patience and beautiful and brilliance all covered beneath rich skin that holds more secrets of the world's most popular city. He exhales gently, and he sees the muscles twitch as Desmond lets out a quiet, "Ah," and ends with a moan as he shifts his legs slightly to accommodate him between his legs, and he finds himself with his eyes closed as he licks a small trail just above his pantline, slowly, and that gets him a much louder groan as Desmond arches into the lick, and the shadows dance playfully on and around them as he exhales and kisses the skin reverently before picking up his quill again and slowly finishing the rest of the map.

When he's done, he steps back, and the Apple assassin straightens. He takes his time to admire the work, the lines of ink tracing out every little heart-felt secret he knew about his beloved city. The shadows obscure and dance across the map, and he rubs his chin and throat unconsciously as the living canvas awaits its approval. In some spots, the ink still glistens fresh and clean, bright and brilliant in the soft light, and he almost doesn't catch the hooded, glassy-eyed look Desmond sends his way.

Malik steps forward, placing his hand on the man's lower back and trailing it around the front. "You have to dry now, before I can finish you."

He swallows to contain the spike of lust that starts in his neck and heats his blood for just a flash as those eyes become almost all black and that golden ring is hardly there at all. Desmond looks as if he's a man deprived of everything, and he has to fight his own urges so he doesn't mess up his masterpiece.

"How long will drying take?" Desmond asks, the tips of his fingers ghosting over his clothed stomach.

"Long enough," he murmurs, going behind the counter and leaving him standing there, watching him.

As he finishes putting away his other maps and supplies, he motions for Desmond to turn around. From across the counter he trails his fingers gently over the lines and nodding in satisfaction when he finds no ink on his fingertips. Desmond shudders under the touch, and he can feel the tense lust in air again. He isn't sure he could lay with his masterpiece, however, and mess it up.

"So, can you finish my front?"

"Are you really so eager to be doodled on—"

"Malik," he hears, and he's compelled to look and meet that hungry gaze, the one he fell hard for when Altair first introduced his mistake with the Apple. "Malik," the man breathes again, and his eyes are drawn to the rippling muscle and the dancing shadows. There's the peek of his map over his shoulders, and the strong outline of the feathered arms, and he watches the skin move like an ethereal entity. He meets Desmond's gaze once more.

"Malik," Desmond says, his voice low and his eyes asking for so many things that he used to want to do with women. "I'm yours to create. Draw on me, paint on me—give me life."

He frowns, taking in posture of a predator, the beautiful expanse of a hairless chest that they had shaved earlier so he could draw on it. He feels something inside him snap as he meets the man in a hungry and passionate kiss, and he realizes that this man, this living, breathing canvas, will be a living testimony of everything the artist is.


End file.
